


The Wind Won't Blow

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Schmoop, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nl0FeA49k3A">What Is and What Should Never Be</a>
</p><p> by Led Zeppelin</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wind Won't Blow

Dean folds his body into his bed, scratchy sheets pricking at his skin, a sensation familiar in its uncomfortable grazing and tucks himself in. His Dad isn’t around to do it anymore, out hunting and slicing and bleeding; he doesn’t miss it, anyway. He’s eleven now and doesn’t needed to be treated like a baby. His heavy lids fall closed, listening to the rustle of the sheets in Sam’s bed, the sound that always accompanies him to bed and he is sure he couldn’t sleep without it, would become too caught up on the fact that his little brother isn’t sleeping beside him. He couldn’t sleep without those breathy pants dancing through the air, those little hitches telling Dean that Sammy is asleep, deeply asleep, lost in those big dreams of his.    
  
Sam makes a tiny snuffling noise from two feet away that sweeps under Dean’s skin, lighting something bright in his chest and soothing the ragged edges left from being on their own. Dean presses his too wide smile into his pillow, content to do nothing but leave its imprint there and knowing that every time he goes to bed now, his love for Sammy will be splashed under his cheek, a lazy streak of happiness. He hopes it gives him good dreams. Sometimes, his dreams are awful, too loud, too red, too big, a place where he can get lost in or more importantly, lose  _Sam_ . Dean always wakes up shaking and shivering afterwards, damp with sweat and heart in his throat, threatening to explode and kill him. He doesn’t really like those dreams.    
  
Twisting around under the covers to face his body towards Sam, he lets out a huge breath, expelling everything into the cold air of the bedroom. They’re in a house this time but it’s got no heating and it can get really cold, breath misting the air in front of Dean’s face, skin on his fingers growing wrinkled. He had made sure that Sammy had enough extra blankets on his bed before he gathered what was left for his own. Some things Dean has to do first; some things just come first.    
  
Dean drifts in a hazy half-sleep, lightly dozing but too cold to actually fall asleep. His mind is full of silly things, like chocolate cake and apple pie, fireworks and his Mom’s smile, the warmth of his old bed and the smell of perfume; things that don’t matter right now, things he can’t have. He thinks of swirling colours, red mixing with green and silver, swirling desperately; of brown, the exact shade of Sam’s hair and the ocean green of his eyes, the white of his smile and that makes Dean feel better.   
  
He wriggles his fingers and toes, slightly numb with the cold and wishes he could fall asleep. He’s so very tired, tired to the bone and he feels like he’ll never get enough sleep. Dean hums Led Zeppelin under his breath, trying to wash his mind clean. He’s tired and it’s all fuzzy and murky up there, full of thoughts that twist in a painful way, things that he’s not supposed to think about or miss.   
  
Dean pauses in his humming and realises that the sounds of Sam sleeping have stopped, no little noises of breathing, no rustling of his sheets. Sam is awake, Dean is suddenly sure, and feels bad because he knows, in that instinctual way he always does when it comes to Sam, that his humming woke him up. He stills, not wanting to wake Sam up further, body not moving and he’s barely even breathing. An unnatural hush falls over the bedroom, so, so quiet and Dean doesn’t like it; abruptly he is aware of the fact that no one else is home and it chills him, the old house creaking in the cold and so, so empty.   
  
A soft whimper escapes from the other side of the room, a sharp intake of breath and the noises that come from a body shifting in a bed.   
  
“Dean?”    
  
Sam’s voice is a whisper, trembling with fear, so young and innocent and lost. In a flash, Dean is out of his bed, crossing the distance between their beds quickly, rapidly, because the icy cold nips at his heels and claws into his lungs. He clambers in beside Sam and pulls the covers up to their chins.   
  
“Yeah, Sam,” he says and he knows it’s enough, wrapping his arms around his brother’s smaller body and feeling it melt into the embrace, relaxing completely. Sam is so warm, like a furnace, the heat from his back curling into his chest and Dean feels the chill in his body slowly seep away, dissipate into the covers. The cold steel band that had been binding his torso too tightly loosens and then slinks away, the thought of Sam feeling safe evaporating it.   
  
Sam twists his body around in Dean’s arms, shoving his feet between his legs, hand moving to clutch at the t-shirt Dean wears to bed and tucks his head under his chin, slotting into place like they had been made for each other, perfect puzzle pieces. Sam buries his nose into Dean’s chest and Dean just tightens his embrace, pulling his brother’s body closer to him, feeling something in his heart slot into place. ‘This is where Sam belongs,’ he thinks in his tired state and doesn’t bother to repress the thought. ‘Sam is mine.’   
  
“Can you sing again, Dean?” Sam asks him, tilting his face up, eyes filled with so much that Dean doesn’t understand and yet does, something warm and fond and bright. His face is a silent plea and Dean knows he won’t ever be able to say no to that face, those eyes so big and round, mouth plumped into a pleading pout. Something too big in him to ignore makes him place a tender kiss on Sam’s forehead and he lingers, feeling the breath of Sam’s pleased hum brush his throat. He tucks Sam back under his chin then, tugging him back into his body, almost too warm under the many blankets he had placed on the bed. He opens mouth and gently begins to sing, lulling Sam into sleep, the hitching snuffles of his sleeping working in counterpoint. Dean smiles around the words, content in this perfect moment.   
  


_Then what's to stop us pretty baby,_

__

_But what is and what should never be._

 _

Catch the wind see us spin, 

Sail away leave the day, 

Way up high in the sky,

But the wind won't blow, 

You really shouldn't go, 

It only goes to show. 

That you will be mine, 

By taking our time.

_


End file.
